


Just Under the Skin

by Ian___0



Category: A Cure For Wellness (2016)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Back Pain, Blood, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Body Invasion, Don't look in the mirror Lockhart!!, Drifting from Fear to Sadness to Anger, Eel Larvae, Eels, Emotional Hurt, Fear, Hallucinations, Hemophobia, Hurt, Hyperventilation, I feel really bad, I love Lockhart but I also like torture, I'm in constant tears and guilts, Infestation, Insanity, Lockhart is really useless in his endeavors, Madness, Pain, Panic, Panic Attacks, Parasites, Parasitic Eels, Rage, STOP DRINKING THE WATER LOCKIE GOSH, Scratching, Somebody please save my poor baby boyyy, THE EELS LOVE TO WIGGLE, The struggle is super real, There's something wrong with his back?, Throat Problems, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 14:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12038178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ian___0/pseuds/Ian___0
Summary: Lockhart is having a really bad day. The hallucinations are getting worse, and he's been really out of it lately. Complications could only worsen severely from there. A peaceful day of drinking the water and calmly staring out of his window turns sour within a matter of minutes.





	Just Under the Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Trust me, the summary is as tame as it can get. It turns into such a fucking mess so quickly. But, it's actually kinda funny. Hahahahahahahahaa......... I'm NOT OK ^w^;;
> 
> BTW I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO KEEP ITALISIZED WORDS DURING A TRANSFER FROM NOTES TO THIS WEBSITE UGH

++++

 

+

 

The patients here at the sanitarium are supposed to be tranquil and happy, but Lockhart is a different story. A special case, indeed, but a patient all the same.

 

"Fuck... Why am I so thirsty...?" He mumbles to himself and pours the third glass of water for today, and it isn't even noon yet. He gulps it down quickly, his Adam's apple shifting up and down with haste. Lockhart stares outside as he drank, watching the old folks playing badminton out in the yard. He leans on his crutches, soon becoming fixated on watching the men and women that are much older than he is. Lockhart sets the empty glass down on the ledge automatically as he watches beyond the open window. He becomes lost, entranced in it all. He blinks once, squeezing his eyelids together tightly, seeing sharp images of his transfusions flugel treatment, before he opening them. He sees an injured deer limping about in the distance, within the closed area of the castle. Its branch thin limbs are tangled in car wires. Glass, flesh, and blood hang off the sides of its body, and one of its horns have broken off. It must still be lying out in the road somewhere. His eyes and forehead squint in a serious manner, eyeing the deer before slowly starting to retreat backwards on his creaking crutches. His hand shakes as he reaches and closes the window. His gaze is still focused at the window. His chest expands and contracts cautiously.

 

He's  hallucinating  again. And, they're getting stronger. His whole body is tingling with paranoia and anxiety. His teeth chatter as his breathing and heart rate become increasingly unsteady. He can feel himself getting worse, mentally and physically. He feels a tiny quake in his midsection, only moving his eyes to glance downward. His lips are parted, and he's becoming very nauseated. He remembers his  multiple  treatments of the transfusions flugel. Lockhart couldn't help but shed a tear or two at his flashbacks. His whole body is violently shaking, as if he were in the bitter cold. His blood feels like it is draining from him. Face and lips as white as his gown, he shifts a little in between his crutches and starts creaking towards the bathroom.

 

Lockhart ignores his reflection in the mirror as he passes. A heat crawls up his spine and cold sweat streams down his pasty face. He has to vomit. Aside is where he sets his crutches, in between the toilet and the sink. The wall clinks with the metal.

 

He slumps in front of the toilet, resting on one knee as his casted leg is stretched out near the side of the toilet, pointing at his crutches. Lockhart tries his best to keep down what wants to come up, but the bile has already built against the back of his throat. He suddenly feels a painful  jerk  in his back, as if his spinal chord wanted to shift elsewhere. He yelps, then grits his teeth. He's clutching the ring of the toilet seat hard, hands shaking and turning white underneath due to the force of his press. His stomach churns roughly, growing more and more unstable as he keeps trying to suppress his urge to heave.

 

Lockhart's panting, exhaling shakily, the bile growing thicker with each breath. Another tear slides down the side of his chilly cheek and under his chin before dripping to the front of the toilet seat. He can't stop thinking about what is swimming inside of his belly. He's already too far gone to actually spit up a whole eel or two. More tears part from his eyes at this realization. His eyes are forced to shut and he grits his teeth again, making pained noises and groans as he weeps. Saliva carelessly separates from his lips while making his noises of despair.

 

"I can't... I can't...do thi--" He lurches forward before he could finish his pitiful grumble, violently vomiting amber bile and miscellaneous slivers of eel from his esophagus. He repeats this heave multiple times as the strong heat washes over him like lava. Leftover liquid trickles down the side of his mouth.

 

Lockhart's dry coughs vibrate and scratch their way from his throat. The eels that still remain alive in his gut have calmed, for now. His hands and forearms can't stop trembling as he tries and fails to pull himself to stand. He's too weak for this, just how Volmer wants him. He lulls his head back, detaching his hands from the toilet and sitting on the floor. His eyes lie unfocused, staring at the toilet. Within moments, his face changes from hopeless to  angry . His teeth grit tightly once more, eyes glowing their clear blue, but with a furious, electric rage. He lets out a grunt in vexation. That grunt turns into fury-filled screams. He kicks the toilet repeatedly in such frustration, his bare foot and heel slapping against the underside of the toilet bowl.

 

"FUCK YOU!!" He yells abruptly, blinded by such an intense, yet panicked, rage. It's what he's been holding in ever since he's been given the run around here. But his little tantrum proves fruitless. The only thing that is born from his anger is a  nosebleed  and a  headache . He feels the blood tickling the skin it's touching beneath his nostril. It starts to touch the rim of his upper lip; it gives the illusion that the red is springing his pale lips back to life. His eyes move downward, his lips and teeth are  quivering . He brings a single, quaking finger up to the underworld of his nose, then bringing the blood to his sights. The second he catches that glimpse of red, he quickly sets his hand to the floor beside him, looking away in horror. His body tremors return, and he starts to  hyperventilate . His overwhelming fear of blood makes him shrink into something even lesser than the man he's already become during the course of his stay here. He  dares  not to take another look at his crimson finger, but the fact that he can now taste his blood is making his head spin. The hemoglobin paints a hint of his white teeth bright red as he painfully grits again. He shifts to lean on his hip, laying down on the freezing tile floor. He clutches the front of his shirt with his bloody hand, trying to calm his breathing. The oxygen and carbon dioxide floss through his teeth as he refuses to release them from their tightening prison. Shutting his eyes tightly, his free moving leg curls up next to his abdomen. He doesn't possess the strength to stand, and he's starting to get very drowsy.

 

His breathing starts to slow again, sharply inhaling, quietly exhaling. His eyes start to roll to the back of his head, twitching when they can't go any farther; the eyelids flutter closed, but not before another tear falls, wetting the cheek lying on the icy flooring.

 

Lockhart passes out.

 

+

 

Images flash in the back of the business man's tortured mind. Small eel larvae can be seen in sparks shown throughout the inside of a person's body. These insides were littered with thousands of these parasitic forms. They swim around violently; some even look like they are attacking this poor soul. His eyes dart and tremble hastily as he continues to see a compilation of this and many other traumatizing visuals that he'd rather not see. He's been living in such a nightmare ever since his car accident.

 

+

 

The sun is starting to set; it looks very peaceful outside, the tallest view of the castle shining brightly in a red-orange tinge. The sky looks as if it were on fire, the smoke being the dark clouds matching the warm atmosphere. This unique painting of natural colors seeps into Lockhart's room, making it look less cold. The young man is lying on his back now, head turned towards the window. The setting sun is reaching for his eyes, kissing them with lips of warmth.

 

The blood that was running from his nose has been shifting, now having been on the move down the back of his throat. He's been on his back for at least an hour now. He had only turned over just recently. Lockhart suddenly comes to with a loud, wet gasp, his eyes wild with distress. He immediately felt the blood at the back of his throat shoot into his lungs, quickly turning to his hands and knee. He gives violent coughs; it feels as though nails are carving away at the lining of his oxygen filtering organs. Blood sprays in small bits with each forceful hack, forming tiny red bubbles on the cold tile floor.

 

"Ughhck!" Is all Lockhart squeezes out, placing a hand on his dry, scratchy throat. His breath is labored, but now clear of fluid that doesn't belong. The exhales  cripple  him, forcing his supporting forearms to tremble with each passing cycle.

 

He eventually calms down. He glances at the sun, surprised that he's been out since noon, the blood around his nose and stuck on his finger having dried hours ago. His pale stare is fixated on the droplets of blood that lie on the floor, watching them  thump  as well as the rest of the room. He shakes his head.  This is just an illusion; Get a grip!  Lockhart's bodily tremors are returning as he tries to stand himself up for the first time in a while.

 

"Slow and steady..." Lockhart's back is against the wall, pulling himself up that way. His free leg is doing twice the work as his casted leg is limp, stiff, and immobile. He gets tired very easily, overexertion revealed by his face and a tiny vein that shows itself at the side of his forehead, near the temple. Once he's successfully stood up, he's sweating a little. This struggle is proving to be quite troublesome.

 

Standing opposite to the mirror, he leans against the wall, his lack of strength glowing with faint huffs. He couldn't remember a time where he felt so weakened and defeated. Even his lack of sleep never granted him as many problems as he now possesses. His face gleams pinkish, overwhelmed by frustration.

 

But, something catches his attention, stiffening his tremors in terror. Lockhart can feel multiple sensations throughout his body.  Why, oh why does his skin feel like it's trying to crawl his way from his body...?  He doesn't want to look down; he instead looks forward, keeping it that way. He stares at himself in the mirror, and for a moment, everything seems fine. As soon as he was about to calm down though, his paranoia swarmed as he notices something  wriggling  against the collar of his white shirt. He practically  lunges  himself at the sink, frantically tugging at his shirt collar to get a better look. Pure panic immediately sets in, his eyes wide. There is a small string making quick wave motions where his collar bone meets the beginning of his neck. The hand shakes as he moves it from the shirt collar to poke the little 'worm' lying just underneath. This stinging pain erupts from under the skin he touches, causing the same loud yelp to return from earlier. One of his eyes shut as he winces, watching the baby string move wild under his flesh with his remaining eye.

 

It doesn't take long to start hyperventilating again as Lockhart's anxiety starts to sink in, realizing that this isn't some of his many graphic hallucinations. The exhales that accompany his freak out include light groans that scratch against the inside of his rigid airway. This feeling is getting very maddening, even the flesh that is protected by his cast isn't safe. He's becoming quite desperate and panicked.

 

He immediately starts putting fingernails against his throat as his chest fluctuates rapidly, unable to keep stable any longer. He tears away his robe and shirt in a frenzy. Shock envelops every particle of his face. The eels were all over him in a swarm. His eyes felt as though they were going to bulge out of their sockets. He fails to hold in his hysterical crying, tears flying about where they may. This is exactly what he saw in Ms. Watkins when he snuck in the room that lie before transfusions flugel. His body hasn't even degenerated to such a shriveled state yet. He can't begin to fathom why he sees so many calling his vessel home. A vein twitching against the side of his temple threatens a stroke.

 

His nails scrape against the skin attached near his collar bone, attacking the first infant eel he spotted recklessly. This feeling, it burns like hell. More tears and short, pained grunts leak from him due to such an acute discomfort. He feels a thick wetness on all of his digits that he dare not look at. Instead, he tries to plow through the twinge, counting all attempts to ignoring his crippling fear of blood. He keeps telling himself that he has more important goals to reach. Now there's a thought that has finally reminded him of his former attitude. He clenches and grinds his teeth angrily at his determination, his eyes drilling into the mirror with such a rampage as he continues with drills of his own pointed at the eel.

 

The business man turned  patient  finally manages to pull that one eel out. He has completely gashed open the entire section of the eel's comfort zone. The tiny one makes an unnoticeable gallop when it hits the tiled floor in a small bloody puddle. Lockhart ignores the little wriggler on the outside as he crazily pursues the others, moving down his chest. If he sees one, they're toast, as well as his sweet flesh, joining the first of many small larvae on the floor.

 

His madness is matched by the amount of his own blood that runs and smears across his torso and belly, partially staining the top portion of his eggshell pants and cast. Some droplets have even made their way to splatter his face. It's as if he were painting and the paint had mysteriously spread to places he hadn't remember touching. Blood had even made it to the porcelain sink and hugged tiny sections of the mirror. His handprints can also be seen in smudged lines on the sink. Adrenaline races through his veins like six hundred marathon runners, tearing out each small eel he finds until he can't see or reach what he feels.

 

+

 

Lockhart is bowing his head, leaning over the sink. The adrenaline slows, and sound starts to sing distortedly in his ears. He can barely hear his exhausted breath. A crawling pace of his heart pulses at the base of his ears. The drain he's been staring down for some time is repeating the same visual pulsing as the heart beat he hears.

 

Bum......... bum bum..........bum........... bum bum.......... bum.............

 

His chapped lips are parted, and his pupils dilate out of focus.  Are those charred fingers he sees clawing out of the sink drain?  He expresses no alarm, his brain automatically concluding that there is no way in  hell  that this onyx hand can shove its way fully out of this slim drain hole to grab him or anything.

 

Lockhart doesn't look into the mirror, he already has the automatic common sense to know that he's a bloody mess. But at least he can't feel the crawling between his muscle and the beginning of his dermis.  Wait.  He soon emerges from his brain's autopilot mode, his pupils resetting themselves in realization. The two charcoal fingers are gone, and he can feel something crawling all throughout his back side. He detaches his hands from the sink, swiftly twisting himself around. He shouldn't be shocked to see that there were more behind him that he missed, but there he is, cold sweat running down his cheek.  Or was that a tear of anguish?  Worry is stretching across his face like a thin elastic cover, suffocating his former professional businessman persona once more. It's as if every ounce of his personal traits was drained from him the longer he stayed in this old sanitarium.  Who is he now?  Desperation sinks it's contaminated hooks back into him, but this time, he's going to be more creative.

 

One hand rests back to the edge of the sink, leaning over to pick his filthy robe and shirt up from the floor. He ensures that he doesn't fall due to only having one leg to bend at his disposal. He starts to wrap the clothing tightly around his arm. Only some extra parts of his robe are dangling down. He takes one last good look at the mirror, his bloody image staring right back at him. The shakes and anger are growing from witnessing the blood.  There's so much blood.

 

He barely blinks. Now his reflection dawns a drowning sea of darkness in its eyes and is growing a sinister grin on its face. The grin gets wider until the reflection's sharp teeth are shining at him from ear to ear. Lockhart's worry shifts back into a paralyzing fear as he can't help but watch the horror unfold. The mirror's frame starts to pulse like the same slow heart beat pattern. The seams of the mirror start to ooze a thick black substance from all angles, lazily gliding down, and making streaks from the top that run down the reflector. He takes a jolt back in defense when his reflection started to  violently  hit his bloodied fist against its side of the mirror in an outrage. It laughs like a  fucking  madman. These sudden loud noises ring throughout his psyche. It looked as though his reflection wanted to break out of the mirror and drag him to a whole new world of suffering.

 

Lockhart watches this strange force in absolute  horror , shivering and trembling. His thighs and hips want to drop him to the floor in shock, but he has to fight against this.  He cannot lose his mind like everyone else!

 

He doesn't know where this mustered up strength erupts from, but he attempts to  fight  against the fear in order to fulfill the purpose of wrapping his arm with cloth. Instead of letting himself be pushed to the floor by his own weaknesses, he practically leaps at the mirror, smashing his whole coveted forearm against it. His grunt is loud when he makes impact, causing the glass to shatter completely. Lockhart just used his entire body as a force to destroy his malevolent counterpart. Large and small shards of glass clank and clink to the floor, creating a beautiful song of shimmering ruin. He takes his free leg and steps back with a limp so that he can look at the remains of this sink-mirror unit. He  hissues  and looks down when the shards attach themselves to the sole of his foot, opening deep cuts.

 

"SsssAGh!!" His pained sneer sounded irritated.  This isn't funny anymore.  He lifts his foot barely from the floor, before looking back to where the mirror used to be. To his surprise, the black ooze had disappeared, and his  devil  of a reflection isn't seen on the shattered glass.  Was that seriously just a figment of his imagination?  He shakes his head in denial.

 

"What the... AGH!!!" He's torn away from his incomplete question after a shooting pain of fire occurs along his spine again. This happened  hours  ago.  Where is this coming from?!  He shouts, livid, as he clutches the sides of the sink with both hands. "AUGGGHHHH!!" This pain, he doesn't know where it's coming from. It still feels as though his spine wants to shift around and eventually escape from his skin and muscle. He shows his teeth as he keeps yelling and groaning, full of pain.  It must be those damned things attacking me from the inside...  His anger starts to boil deep in the blood that he has left. He can  feel  the internal red liquid starting to bubble within his circulatory system.

 

A  twist  deep in his core subsequently strangles his organs. Lockhart abruptly pounces toward the sink without warning and spits up quite an amount of blood from his damaged insides. His anger proves useless as he loosens his grip on the bloody porcelain, his forearms shaking as he starts to drift to the floor.  They're mad... at me.  He can feel them striking him in every little way that they can. The attacks felt coordinated into countless groups of who knows how many. They riddle every inch of him, ruling  his  temple. The eels are in control, and  he's  the one just hitching a ride. Lockhart lets go of the sink completely, dropping on his back. The back of his head hits a tile and his eyesight becomes blurred. He starts to hyperventilate once more, turning his head to the side and gritting his teeth, lips separated wide in suffering. His eyes close tightly, creating stressed wrinkles. Saliva and blood flow in and out the side of his mouth like a small, loose rubber band as he inhales and exhales with haste.

 

"Nghh! Hheh! Hehh!..." Tears stream down the side of his face that leans toward the tile. He doesn't know what to do. It hurts to move now. He's completely immobilized, utterly useless. They all threaten to destroy him from the inside out, and there isn't a  single fucking thing  that he can do about it.

 

+

 

Lockhart's irrational fear of blood starts to resurface once he's been forcefully soothed by lack of movement. He cannot stop the impulse of teeth chatter and severe bodily tremors as he drowns in his own superficial fear. His eyes reflect his scared reactions as they're wide open. His brain is now fully aware that there's blood on the scene, all over and around him. His pants and cast are practically half soaked with his red plasma.  Help... me.  He barely hears pounding in the distance and his eyes move of their own accord, directly at the doorway that leads out of the bathroom. They don't blink. They dare not blink again, just in case. His mouth hangs open blankly, some blood drifting from the side. His brain sends signals to his arm, wanting it to move and grab a large slab of the glass that lie around him. Against these god forsaken  parasites'  wishes, his actions obey his brain. The muscles cramp and churn in his arm, but he still has some fight left in his poor, slim frame.

Someone bursts into his room. They must have been knocking for the past five minutes, while he was suffering. There's two orderlies, one standing on each side of him. They aren't frantic at the horrific sight of him bleeding out all over the precious flooring, or the fact that eel larvae lie writhing in his fluids. They react on orders as Director Volmer stands in the doorway. When the orderlies are told to grab under his arms, that's when he viciously lashes out. He forces himself to lift his torso and arm, shoving the large glass into the orderly closest to that arm that was hiding it behind his back. He yelps with a frightening pain at the jerk of his sudden motion, but he managed to nail the guy in the chest. He just barely punctured the orderly's heart. The orderly topples over with a loud  thud . His blood barely spurts covering the sunken glass in a dark crimson.

 

Lockhart starts to grin. He did something  useful . Or so he thought; a large boot came crashing against his chest, shooting him back to the floor. He felt a rib snap like a twig, and he hit his head again. His scream of agony is the loudest that he's produced so far. He  fights  unconsciousness. Oh, how he wants to pass out. But he  can't . He still has to  fight !

 

"Ungh..." His scream turns into a grunt. He closes one wincing eye and looks up at the second orderly who is pinning him. He barely brings his quaking hand to grab at the orderly's ankle. He huffs, exhausted. "Please... I'm  dying ..." He can't hear his own soft voice. His heart's slowing pound is blocking the way. The expression on this orderly's face is unforgiving. His hand is easily shaken away by the limb he tried to grip. It drops to the side, unfolded outward. His breath and pulse are getting weaker as each moment passes. Sweet relief tempts him with happiness, with an  escape .

 

The orderly looks back at Volmer, awaiting new directions. Volmer just stands there, stern, quiet, taking into account what Lockhart had done to himself. He admits that trying to remove those larvae was pretty brazen of the young man. But, it was awfully futile. It takes him a long time to give an order, but when he does, it's already lights out for Lockhart.

Volmer helps the orderly drag Lockhart out of his room where a nurse runs by with a stretcher. All three immortals lift Lockhart and secure him comfortably. The nurse and orderly separate from Volmer. Volmer takes his time ordering his crew to straighten up and fix Lockhart's room.

 

+

 

Lockhart opens his weak eyelids. He's in his room,  still at the sanitarium . The sun is shining through his window. He's been sleeping for long periods of time ever since he injured himself a week ago. He struggles to peel of the countless sheets and sit up. Everything on him is clean, his clothing, his cast, his skin, and his new bandages around the majority of his torso, arms, legs, and neck. He looks for his crutches like a lost puppy trying to find its owner. It took him a while, but he eventually found them between his bed and nightstand. He always puts them there when he doesn't use them. He takes his crutch in each hand, under his arms, and lifts himself to stand. He fully relies on his crutches to help. Lockhart travels to the window, avoiding glances into the bathroom, pushing it open nonchalantly, pressing his cold, pale fingers against the glass. He looks down at the pitcher and glass of ice cold water with a blank expression. His lips and throat beg for sweet hydration. He sets one crutch to the side, leans on the other, and picks up the full glass. The water that resides fades away within  seconds  to be sorted into his body. He starts to stare at the old folks playing Crockett outside, feeling a serenity overtake his senses. He pours a second glass of water and starts to drink it just as fast as the first.

 

Five more glasses of  miracle  water later and he's still thirsty.

 

+

 

++++


End file.
